The Affair of the Lincolnshire Sausage
by Westron Wynde
Summary: It's another Holmes & Watson breakfast story. With sausages. And why Holmes doesn't eat much for breakfast. Silly but fun. And it's a one-shot.


**_Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are the creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This silly story is a work of fan fiction, written by a fan, for the pleasure of other fans and no harm is meant or intended by its creation._**

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_**The Affair of the Lincolnshire Sausage**_

I will readily admit to being a reluctant riser when frost is on the window pane and my slippers are out of easy reach. There is a certain decadence in remaining in bed luxuriating in the warmth of blankets when one knows that the rest of the world is out in the worst of a January morning. 

On the morning in question, however, I was out of my bed and rushing to get myself ready with some haste despite the chill of the bare boards and the snowflakes drifting past the window. The reason was the intoxicating smell that was creeping beneath my door from downstairs, the mouth-watering, heavenly lure of sausages frying in a pan.

It is a smell I can never resist. Of all the foods I have ever experienced, it is always the humble sausage that remains at the top of my list of favourites. I never knew the depth of my passion until I was on active service, when they were so scarce as to become a luxury item, making their appeal ever greater. Absence, as they say, makes the heart grow fonder, and since my return to London, I am ashamed to say that I have done my best to pander to my obsession. 

Holmes, no doubt disapproved, but then he has his habits and I have mine. Whilst he has been able to indulge himself, I have been bereft since Christmas and have constantly entreated Mrs Hudson to purchase some for our breakfast. For many mornings, I have been disappointed; this morning, however, I was in for a treat.

My timing was perfect. Mrs Hudson was just coming up the stairs with a laden tray in time for me to relieve her of her burden. I entered our sitting room with a flourish to find Sherlock Holmes seated at the table, still in his dressing gown and busily reading the early edition. 

He glanced over at me when I entered with little enthusiasm and this indifferent state continued as Mrs Hudson set our repast before us.

"Sausages, Mrs Hudson?" said I eagerly.

She beamed at me. "Knowing how you like them, Dr Watson, I made a special effort to get some, just for you. And these are special ones too – Lincolnshire sausages."

"Mrs Hudson, you excel yourself," I thrilled. "Holmes, isn't this the greatest treat?"

I was sure I had heard him sigh with vexation at our conversation and his expression now confirmed it. "If you say so, Watson, but then I do tend to defer to your greater experience in culinary matters. If it is at all possible, Mrs Hudson, I'd like some toast."

Mrs Hudson shared a knowing grin with me and rolled her eyes, being far too accustomed to her tenant's behaviour by now to be offended at this rejection of her meal. The toast was brought, Holmes spread a thin smear of butter on the bread and quietly returned to his paper, leaving me the lion's share of the offering.

After a short period of concerted eating on my part, three sausages still lay in the dish. Three is normally my limit, but to see Holmes' portion go to waste was akin to torture. As usual, he had barely eaten enough to sustain a bird let alone a human being and had shown profound contempt for much else on the breakfast table. Clearly, some little enquiry was needed on my part as to the fate of these delectable sausages.

"Would you like some coffee?" I asked, starting my investigation in a roundabout way so as not to attract suspicion.

Holmes gave a muted grunt and pushed his empty cup my way. I duly obliged by filling it.

"Milk?"

"No."

"Sugar?"

"No."

"Would you like me to fill it to the top of the cup?"

With that, he put aside his paper and looked at me. "Unless someone has crept in and replaced you with an imposter in the middle of the night, you should be familiar enough with my habits by now to avoid the need for asking these unnecessary questions, Watson. Therefore, either you are being deliberately obtuse, which is simply annoying, or you are trying to attract my attention, which knowing you, is the more likely of the two. So, what is it, Doctor?"

I shrugged, a little embarrassed at being discovered quite so easily. "I was wondering if you intended to eat your sausages?"

"No," he snapped. "You are more than welcome to them."

"My dear fellow, are you really quite sure? They are exceptionally fine."

"No doubt," he rumbled.

"And the herb seasoning is an absolute treat. Just right, as a Lincolnshire sausage should be."

"Watson, my interest in this matter about which you feel the need to enthuse so readily is practically nil. Why do you persist?"

"Ah-ha!" I exclaimed. "'Practically nil', you said. Which means you are a little interested."

He gave me a weary glance. "No."

I helped myself to another sausage and gave it a fair sprinkling of pepper. "Come to think of it, Holmes, I don't think I've ever seen you eat a sausage. Why?"

"Is it important?"

"No, I just wondered what you had against sausages."

"Absolutely nothing," said he. "My reluctance to indulge as you do is attributable to the fact that I like sausages too much. They however do not like me."

This revelation astounded me. Holmes rarely allowed me to share in other aspects of his life outside of our pursuit of the criminal fraternity, and when he did it was an opportunity not to be missed. I was understandably intrigued.

"You mean they make you ill?"

"No, they make me fat."

I have to say that this struck me as being the funniest thing I had heard for a long time. I burst out laughing, much to Holmes' indignation.

"It is not a laughing matter, Watson. Indeed, it is a tragedy that I am forced to sit here, watching you devour those delicious-looking sausages, while all I am permitted is a slice of cold toast."

"But, my dear Holmes, you are as lean as a lamp post."

"And I cannot describe the sacrifices and effort it takes to maintain this physique," said he. "My ancestry is not helpful. My family has a tendency to run to fat. Should I allow myself to partake of food every time the mood comes upon me, which is often, I should be as rotund as Mycroft."

Now he mentioned it, I did recall my earlier surprise that his brother was rather stouter than I had expected. Seeing as how Holmes was so slim, however, I had attributed it to nothing more his elder sibling's more sedentary lifestyle.

"As I see you are so amused by this confidence, it will no doubt entertain you further to hear that as a child I was quite overweight."

"Never!" I declared. "I do not believe it."

He nodded. "Oh, it is quite true. My mother was a most cautious woman who insisted on clean plates at mealtimes, lest it tempt fate by wasting good food. The result was that by the time I attended school I was immodestly heavy and fairly bulging from my clothes."

"Good heavens, Holmes, I would never have thought it possible," said I, truly astounded by this tale.

"The other boys were merciless of course. I was known as 'Stately'."

I must have been slow-witted that morning for it took a few seconds to make the connection. "'Stately Homes'," said I, "because you were so large?"

I tried and failed to keep the smile from my face, something which did not impress my friend at all.

"I'm glad you find my childhood so humorous, Watson. At least now you know why I am in contact with none of my peers from that miserable period."

"I am not laughing at you, Holmes. I just find it so unlikely that you should have ever been fat. Clearly _something_ happened, as you are quite emaciated now."

He took a long sip of coffee before replying. "It was the summer before I started university. A most fortuitous illness, as it happened, although initially the doctors did despair of my life. The weight dropped off though and by the time term began no one recognised me. Since then, I have lived in dire fear of achieving such a weighty size again and now deny myself the pleasures of my youth."

"Sausages included."

"_Especially_ sausages. Although," he said wistfully, eyeing the last two sausages on the dish, "even now after all this time I must admit I am sorely tempted."

I pushed the plate a little closer to him. "Try it. One won't hurt."

He shook his head. "Watson, I do not dare take that chance! I envy this ability of yours to eat as much as you like and never put on a pound. I, on the other hand, have only to look at a sandwich to pile on weight."

"Would that be because you're eating a piece of cake at the time?" I teased.

He gave me a reproving glance. "Well, perhaps there is some truth in what you say."

"A little of what you fancy, Holmes…"

That final prompt was all that was need to weaken his resolve. He picked up a sausage and deftly bit off the end.

"Heaven," said he, between mouthfuls. "Although I have always been of the opinion that a generous helping of tomato puree compliments the flavour beautifully."

"No, no, I cannot agree with you there. Everyone knows that the only sauce for sausages is brown."

"Too tangy, Watson. It spoils the flavour." He finished his sausage and wiped his greasy fingers on the napkin. "There, are you happy now? I shall probably be out of my trousers by tomorrow in which case I will expect you to stump up for my tailor's bill."

"My pleasure."

With that, he got up and began in the direction of his room.

"Oh, Holmes," said I. "Before you go, there is _one_ thing."

He looked back expectantly.

"The last sausage, Holmes. Will you have it or shall I?"

For a moment, he seemed genuinely torn. "You have it, Watson," said he, somewhat dejectedly. "You have already broken my resolve once this day. Twice will never do!"

He left and I treated myself to the last helping, satisfied that single-handedly I had solved the most curious affair of Sherlock Holmes' aversion to the humble but delicious Lincolnshire sausage.

**The End!**


End file.
